The Man on the Clapham Omnivorebus

Content Codes: Complete, Humanoid, M/F, TF. Oral sex

The demon placed his remaining possessions on the nearest seat, and took his wrists. She pulled him up with that effortless strength and helped him stand. He felt a bounce at his crotch as he rose, and realised that not only was he still naked, but still erect. It was almost the most unnatural event of the night; no man should still be hard after oral pleasure like that. Awkwardly he tried to shield his tumescence with his burned hands, realised he’d come in her mouth a short time earlier, and gave it up.  

“There mortal, you’ll live to see another dawn.”

“Dylan. My name is Dylan… should I tell a demon my name?” 

She nodded, “Most demons would be able to see it in a mortal’s mind anyway. I could, were I not bound as I am. Well met then, Dylan. I have used as many names as I have faces and forms since I put aside the one given by my creator. You may call me Sarsa.”

The bus lights flickered, went out, but the streetlights outside were bright and he could still see fairly well. Glancing through the window he realised with a shock the bus had arrived home. The real 88 normally stopped on a nearby street. 

“Hey! Hey! I live there! It’s my house! Well, Jonty’s house, but the rest of us rent rooms from him.”

He was babbling on a bit, disconcerted by something so ordinary and everyday as an end-row side street house, in comparison with his nakedness, and the presence of a demon. He was glad it was dark inside the bus, but he still hunched a little in the seat. Above their heads the bus’s roof faded away. 

“The Omnivorebus could imitate humans, such as a fake driver, or a recent victim. A good way to lure in more. Your landlord Jonty would likely have been next. It’s one of many monstrosities I unleashed on the mortal world, designed for short term chaos and terror, a handful of mortal victims at most, before it would inevitably have been banished by an angel, or some mortal champion. It was capable of hiding itself, even from me, until it activated.”

She spoke so matter-of-factly, with an accent inhumanly strange yet enticing, that he found himself nodding along at the reasonableness before comprehending the meaning. He recalled she’d said she created it earlier, too. The demon, Sarsa, claimed responsibility for the monster bus that had nearly digested him. That had succeeded in destroying his clothing and possibly even the use of his hands. She sounded regretful, at least.

“You made that horror? But saved me from it?”

“I apologise, mor- Dylan. I have done a great many things I now regret. I was not entirely sane, my mind fractured by a ritual to let me remain incarnate on Earth. It is no excuse, but I believed I was acting to save my only true friend, a demon who now calls herself Shannon. I believed her enslaved by a power far greater than both of us. Once the Omnovorebus began its hunt I was brought here to destroy it before it could lure a victim. I emerged from the portal close enough that I should have been able to track and overtake it in time.”

Sarsa gripped her arms against herself, head down, as she spoke.

“ I… it was my pride mor- Dylan, my vanity. A group in my path hailed me, told me they thought my demon costume was fantastic, that they considered me beautiful. They asked for selfies. In the time I was delayed you were ensnared. Do you see? You nearly died this night not just because I spawned the Omnivorebus, but because I dallied, for ephemeral praise…”

“Look, Sarsa… I’m alive, ok? Right here. Naked, wounded, and aboard a dissolving bus, but alive. You went down on your knees to save me. I’m so grateful to be upright, and breathing that I have to forgive you. You were trying to do the right thing. I really hope you’ll forgive me for, um, making a mess on your back, too.”

That drew a melancholy sigh, and then a brief smile towards him. 

“You mortals have a saying, don’t you? ‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’ Consider yourself forgiven, for I do so. Now, let us transfer you into your dwelling, before you faint again.”

Dylan reached onto the seat beside him for his keys, cursed at the jolt of pain, and dropped them. He looked helplessly at Sarsa. She reached over and picked them up, then his phone, and motioned for him to follow her out of the bus, and up to the front door. The cold night air raised goosebumps all over his body, and he was glad to step into an empty hall. Gladder still that the downstairs front room had been converted into the bedroom he rented. He directed Sarsa into it. She flicked on the light and she put his phone, and keys, down on his desk. 

Right, next. He needed to urinate. Time had passed since his last beer, and he’d come twice, too. There was a problem; He was still hard. He gestured at his crotch, 

“Uh… sorry to draw attention, but, do you know? Is this a, uh, if your demon cursed erection lasts over four hours consult a witch doctor situation?”

Sarsa smiled again at that, far more warmly, white teeth bright. 

“I mentioned I was bound, yes? Some of my abilities are blocked outright. I cannot change my appearance, sprout wings, or horns, or a tail. I cannot read your mortal mind, I cannot travel long distances through the spaces between. Other abilities are reduced or lacking in fine control. I managed to increase your sexual stamina, reduce your refractory period, but overdid it slightly. I caught some of the effect myself. That is why I was so ready to put you in my mouth rather than just use my hands,” she chuckled, and he wanted to hear more of her chuckle, “It’ll wear off in an hour or so, maybe two. Not long enough to cause you harm. You could just orgasm a couple of times to make it wear off quicker. I shall be taking a very cold shower to deal with the lingering backwash.”

“Ok, got it. Could be worse. I guess I’ll go pee like this. Excuse me a moment?” 

He was lucky enough to have an ensuite – Jonty had wanted the larger room originally, before deciding the quieter attic room was more his style. He nudged the door open and found himself faced with the difficulty of trying to urinate with a solid erection and no gripping hands.  He tried directing with his wrists, but couldn’t quite get it right. He felt a rush of gratitude when Sarsa followed him in and angled his shaft down to the bowl. He’d have been splashing the walls otherwise. He caught himself blushing again though, enjoying the gentle grip of that red hand, those black nails wrapped around.

“Thank you,” he said, when he’d finished. 

“How could I do less? I created the construct that crippled you.”

Sarsa backed out of the ensuite, and he followed her, stood face down to face in his rented room with a demon. At least it was only messy, rather than a complete pigsty. 

“You saved my life tonight, Sarsa.”

“I put it in danger in the first place.”

“Yes, but you did save me, and I really appreciate it, and I understand you can’t help my dick, but please, can you do anything for my hands? They’re basically useless! I can’t grip anything, and they’re hurting nearly all the time. I don’t know how I’ll sleep. I’m sorry to ask more of you, I really am, but even, what you said, ‘bound’ you have magic, right? Not just cock curses?”

Sarsa shook her head emphatically, “You’d need a miracle, and I have not been an angel for a very, very, long time. Other demons, not bound as I am, certainly could heal you, but most would want something in exchange. Something that would cost your soul and likely, through your actions, those of several others. If I tried anything I would likely only make your pain worse. Your hands should heal, with time, and with human medical treatments.”

She sounded sincere, at least, sad even. 

“Who bound you, anyway? Are they forcing you to do things?” 

“No, I am not under any compunction. Kizurial of the Seraphim empowered the binding though another, my dear friend Shannon, applied it. I had believed her enslaved, but they were allies, friends even. Know I asked to be bound like this, Dylan, because how can I ask them to trust me to help destroy my creations, protect mortals, when I don’t even fully trust myself? I may have hidden traps inside my own mind; It’s the kind of thing I did, oh that and worse, in the depths of my madness.”

Sarsa’s story didn’t make a lot of sense to Dylan. He felt, not unreasonably, that he was missing a lot of context. Perhaps the concerns of demons were simply beyond a mortal’s ken. He had a vague idea that none of these entities had made it into the Bible. Nevertheless, his pain urged him on. 

“Ok, Seraphim, they’re a type of angel, right?” Sarsa nodded, and he continued “And you were an angel once, too?”

“I was. I rebelled alongside Lucifer, and was cast down into Hell. Vanity, and Pride, again. Oh, I fell so easily… and helped persuade some of my supposed friends to fall with me.”

“Then… if your demon side can’t help, could you please try the part of you that was an angel? You’re wanting to do good things, right? Undo the bad? Isn’t this a way? My hands really fucking hurt, Sarsa, and I do, I genuinely forgive you, and if you can’t help you can’t, but could you try?”

“I… I can’t. I know your suffering is my fault, but I can do nothing for you. I am sorry.”

He stepped closer, looked searchingly into those unblinking black eyes, and added a beseeching, “Please.”

It was completely silently in Dylan’s bedroom. Sarsa met his gaze, stared back, and then without speaking gently took the back of each of his damaged hands in her own. She bowed her head, and stood in silence. Nothing happened. Dylan lowered his own eyes, closed them, and tried to pray silently himself. He needed a miracle, didn’t he? He prayed to the God he’d either denied or ignored, that this demon would succeed in helping him. He prayed also that she might somehow redeem herself, and be forgiven, become an angel again. He imagined her, shorn of her demonic appearance, with great feathered wings spreading behind. 

Heat flowed quickly through his hands. Pleasant heat, like a warm spring day after a hard winter, he had flashes of memories – his mother at his 3rd birthday party, a holiday with his family, drinks at the freshers’ party where he’d first met Jonty and some of the others straight out of high school. The sensation faded and he opened his eyes to see his hands unmarred, healed completely. The pain was gone. 

“You did it, Sarsa! You healed me! Thank you so much!”

He clapped his hands together, no fear of pain, and then held them palm up again. Even a scar dating from a boyhood mishap had disappeared from along his right index finger. Grinning like a mad man, all the evening’s horror and weird shit washed away in a moment, he looked again into the face of his healer. He noticed the change immediately. Where before Sarsa’s eyes had been pure black, the blackness was now only in each pupil. The sclera had become a healthy white, while the irises were a dark blue, tinged… purple. Dylan instantly decided that Sarsa now had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. He wanted to tell her, to kiss atop each of them, but she spoke first in a near whisper,

“I… I called on my creator. I has been so long since I had done anything but curse, and rage, in any thought I directed to…”

She broke off, took his hands in hers again, and looked on them with an expression of wonder. Her eyes grew moist, and she blinked rapidly, the first time he’d seen her blink. 

“…a miracle.”

Dylan wrapped his arms around her, pulled her into a hug, face pressed down into her hair. Her scent deliciously tickled his nose. His nakedness forgotten, he hugged Sarsa fiercely, running his hands up and down her back for the sheer joy of doing so free of pain. He felt her hug back, felt the heat of her body against his. He offered a further prayer of thanks in his mind, and spoke thanks again too.

“Thank you, Sarsa… I really don’t know how to thank you properly, words don’t feel enough. We should celebrate! Let’s get some drinks, and call up your friend, Shannon, tell her what you did.”

“Dylan, if we are to spread word of the miracle of your healed hands, should we not test them first?”

Sarsa spoke with a very playful tone. She wiggled in his arms, pressed against his magically prolonged erection.

“Uh…are you sure? What’s brought this on?”

“Happiness! Also, a penis, rubbing against me, whispering ‘Let us celebrate a miracle! Let us celebrate life! Let us know one another! Cold showers can wait!’”

She then changed her voice to imitate a rather aristocratic accent,

“What kind of British gentleman ejaculates across a lady’s back, and in her mouth, without so much as a reciprocal fondle? I’ve a good mind to write a letter of complaint to Buckingham Palace. Now, be a dear and remove my clothing, there’s a good fellow, and we’ll put those miraculously healed hands to good use, what?”

“You sound like Jonty’s mum.”

“Oh, and did you remove her clothing, too? Roger her in the shrubbery, as you British say?”

“Heh, Ni- Uh, no, no British say that. I don’t think. Maybe in Kent. I shook her hand; a very refined lady. Forget I mentioned her! But, are you sure?”

She gripped his erection. Close enough. He kissed Sarsa then, little kisses on her forehead, above each eye where he’d wanted to, then down, lips to lips, tongue to tongue. He thought he could taste a little of himself, but her sweet breath overpowered all. He’d half-expected brimstone. Her long tongue was stronger than his, but she didn’t push too hard, or deeply. It was nice, kissing the demon, her hand on his hardness, ‘til she broke it. He found himself looking into the enticing depths of her eyes, again.

“Your eyes, they-“

“Yes, yes, my eyes, my literally damned eyes. I’ve something nicer to show you.”

Sarsa released her hold, and stepped back, and reached for a hidden fastener in her centre of her crop top. It fell apart at the front, revealing the shallow curves of her breasts. Small by some measures but perfectly formed, and firm, befitting her petite athletic frame. Dylan gently opened her top the rest of the way, and she held back her arms enough for him to slip it down and off to the floor. He noticed immediately a black biohazard symbol, seemingly tattooed into the side of her left breast.  He gently ran a finger over it, and felt no difference compared to the surrounding skin.

“The physical element of my binding. I chose the design, or I might have ended up with a Starfleet logo. Hah! Never you mind the magic ink, Dylan. Why not stroke a little more to the side of it? I have sensitive nip- mmmm!”

Sarsa arched her back, pushed her breast up into Dylan’s hand. Two breasts, two healed hands. He brought both to bear on bare skin. He’d never really thought of himself as a breast man, but the demon’s chest pressing into his palms had him re-evaluating. Hands weren’t enough; he ducked his head down to taste, feeling Sarsa’s fingers in his ginger hair. Flicked his tongue against one nipple as she murmured wordless pleasure, massaged the other. Fingers flexing, stroking, pain free; a miracle they both enjoyed. Her murmurs turned to moans as he gently nibbled before kissing down past her well defined abdominal muscles, sinking to his knees. 

Sarsa’s skirt had three buttons under a stiff flap to the side, and he fumbled them open, one after the other, until it too slipped freely to the floor. The demon’s intimate scent filled his nose; as with her mouth, he might have expected something unpleasant, but she had a sweet, cinnamon-y musk that seemed to jolt right into his brain. He found himself face to thick black bush, glistening under the room’s light, and Sarsa’s scent only increased. 

Dylan stroked his hands up Sarsa’s thighs, then probed his fingers through the black pubic hair to get a really good look at her pussy. The outer lips of her vulva seemed swollen, a darker red than the rest of her skin. He spread her gently to reveal the pink within, oozing with arousal; shockingly similar to a human woman’s inner folds, and very wet. 

“Wow.”

“What? Were you expecting teeth?”

 “No! Tentacles!” Dylan laughed. 

He kissed her thigh, first, tracing tight muscle with his tongue, then pressed his face into her wiry pubic hair. She lifted a hoof up, over his shoulder. The motion opened her slightly, engorged labia flushed even darker than the rest of her, exposing that bright pink inner skin. Her large clitoris poked out from its little hood. He kissed it, very gently, and then licked at her lower lips, drinking her juice like fine wine. A taste explosion, different to the few human women he’d been with, intoxicating. He lapped thirstily, wanting more, only occasionally flicking his tongue at Sarsa’s most sensitive nub. 

“More, Dylan, please, mortal, press your face in to me.”

There was as much need in her voice as when he’d begged for his hands to be healed, but a different need, desire, lust, passion. He obliged, ready to drown in her. The demon’s juices ran down his chin as he focused his tongue around and then against her nub, before sucking it between his lips. Her hoof rocked against his back, leg shaking. She wound her fingers further into his long ginger hair, raised her voice. Dylan slid a finger up into her, then a second, quickly after, pumped rhythmically as he pushed her pleasure to a peak. 

“Oh creator, yes!”

Sarsa came then, ground her rough bush into his face. Her moans gave way to near silent gasps, little grunts. Her entire body trembled, jerked. He gave her another very gentle kiss, just below her clit, and then stood as she slipped the leg from over his shoulder. She untangled her clawlike nails from his hair. A few severed ginger strands floated to the floor. 

“Is this making love? I’ve only ever fucked mortals before.”

Naked as he was, she seemed almost vulnerable before him. It was easy to forget her strength, even with her demonic appearance. He responded first by taking her face in his hands, and initiating another gentle kiss on her lipstick smeared mouth. She responded urgently; Sarsa evidently had no objection to her own taste.

“I think… I think it’s a little of both.”

“Ha! Maybe. Well, now…”

He felt her hand on his erection again, fingers teasing his foreskin up and down gently. She guided his body to turn as she moved around. Then she released him, and sauntered, hips shaking, the short distance to the wall.  There she bent forward, and thrust her rear out towards him. Firm, shapely, but with a little fat rounding it out, more so than Dylan’s own. The same vivid red skin as the rest of her, but he’d hardly expected tan-lines.  She flicked her head, dropped her thick mane of hair to one side, and shook her buttocks slightly. Did she want him to kiss down there too? Wasn’t the Osculum Infame just a story that witch hunters had made up? He was hazy on the details. But, fuck, he’d thought demons were just a story, too. 

Dylan caressed her, pulled her buttocks further apart to clearly see tight rose of her anus. He’d been told “Kiss my arse!” before, but never in a sensual setting. He began to kneel again, but Sarsa half-turned back from the wall and pulled him up. Swatted his erection playfully.

“You can do that later, if you want, but I want more than a tongue inside me now.”

He didn’t need to be asked again.  He pressed up against her, pulled her face back towards him, not enough to strain her neck, and kissed her mouth instead. Damn, did she taste good, no matter where he kissed her. At the same time, she reached back between her spread legs, rubbed his leaking knob into her bush, aimed it to the right place in her slit. There! Hot, wet, welcoming… They groaned together, breathing into each other’s mouth as Dylan sheathed himself inside her. He broke the kiss, and she turned back to face the wall. He adjusted his hands on her hips and gently withdrew, back in, in and then out. 

Sinfully tight, damnably pleasurable. Dylan wasn’t sure anything could ever beat being with Sarsa. He hoped it wasn’t to be a one-time thing. He wanted to know her in more than the biblical sense, to love her. She pushed back into his thrusts. Tightly gripping, he could still sink his full length inside, out, without bottoming out. He hoped she felt as good as he did, trying to angle his strokes to rub her clit. She obviously liked it from behind, pushing back to meet him, one arm against the wall, the others witching from her breast, to her bush, to reach back for his hip and adjust his rhythm faster, harder. Constantly moving. 

“That’s it! There, now, that’s the speed!”

He wanted to fuck her for hours, but she felt too good. The sight of her before him, the smells of the sex, the sounds the wet sounds of their pleasure, all overwhelming. He wanted to hear her come again, so much. He felt her jerk back against him, stiffening, crying out sharply. Vaginal spasms squeezed, milked him, but he held on, thrusting through her peak. He wrapped his arms around her, hands to her breasts. Dylan barely had time to realise he was going to come before he did, exploding deep inside the demon. His hips bucked, cock firing like a gun, shooting his hot load right to the entrance of her unholy womb. Another vaginal tremor within her drained him more, extra drops spilled inside. He collapsed over her, panted against her back. With a demon’s energy, she wasn’t even breathing fast, and bore his weight easily. 

“You can’t match stamina with a demon, mortal!”

“I’m..” he gasped, “I’m still hard!”

“Good!”

She twisted, lifted him from her back with the same ease she’d shown on the Omnivorebus and tossed him towards his bed. Barely a double in size, she still managed to land him safely the middle. He bounced off the duvet cover, semen and Sarsa’s juice flicking from his cock, and then she surged onto the bed with him, to the protesting of the springs. They both giggled, kissed, tongues again wrestling, before Sarsa sat back, astride his left leg. She bit her lip, rubbed herself over his toned thigh, leg hair into bush. So warm, so wet, and his own essence dribbling freely from her. Should he have used protection? What was that, when you were with a demon? An old priest and a young priest? 

“I’d like us to peak together. I’ve never done that, with a mortal… Shall we try?”

He reached up, fondled Sarsa’s breasts, cupping, squeezing, paying attention to those lovely sensitive nipples. 

“We might have to go a few times to get it right!”

“Ha! Dylan, if you can go again after this, we shall… and if you need sleep, then sleep. You’ll come to no harm with me here. Will you trust me?”

She looked like almost like a cartoon rendition of hell-spawn. That had been the point, perhaps, of binding her into this specific form, in case she turned to evil again. He took in again her red skin, contrasted it with the long black hair and equally dark bush, the hoofs, the too-sharp teeth. He thought of the unblinking black eyes she’d had earlier. It seemed to Dylan that she now had the eyes of an angel. If it wasn’t just arousal talking, he was falling in love. He nodded; he trusted her. She ground harder against his leg; frenetic frottage. 

“That’s nice, keep doing that, keep, there, with my breasts… They were bigger once, and I could make them so again if I wasn’t bound. Hah! Don’t worry, I won’t ask what you’d prefer, sweet mortal.”

He kept on playing with her breasts as she shifted her weight from his glistening thigh, positioned herself instead over his crotch. The heat radiating from her made him twitch. He was still breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his body, but the little break had let his heart beat closer to normal. Sarsa took him in hand again, angled and aimed him just right so she could sink slowly down upon him. She took him all the way inside, fully balls deep, until his ginger bush meshed into her black one, both glistening. Then she squeezed him inside her. Dylan arched, jerked up under her, held off from shooting too quickly. He could do that, he thought, for her.  

One of them said, “You feel so good.”

One of them replied, “You too.”

Sarsa stroked her black nails down his chest, little scratched trails, not enough to break the skin. She could tear flesh with her bare hands, but this was just a mark of affection. She began to ride him, leaning forward, rocking on and off, just far enough to keep him inside, then enveloping him whole. She bit her lip, eyes closed, enjoyed him being inside her again. He smiled, and thumbed gently around her nipples. She had found her angle. Her moans grew, and Dylan couldn’t stop himself from crying out each time she sank back down. It couldn’t last; the magical boost she’d given him to get him off the bus was fading, used up, he willed himself to stay hard, let her grind on him, felt her, heard her, saw her, getting close, climbing her peak. He was ready, waiting, enjoying every second, enjoying the challenge. He moved his hands up, held her face, she opened her eyes, connection sparked.

“N-NOW!”

Simultaneously, loudly, wetly, to wall-banging from Dylan’s housemates, they yelled their pleasure. Sarsa writhed atop him, sank down in a messy tent of her hair, milked him down to flaccidness until he slipped free and the wet patch beneath grew wetter still. The air so heavy with their sex it seemed like a heat haze. Another kiss. Dylan had never kissed so much during sex, never felt so much affection for a partner he’d only just met. She was a miracle. 

“Thank you, Dylan, that was wonderful.”

“S-same… I need… need 15 - 20 min-“ he fell asleep, mid-sentence, with his demonic lover still astride him. 

**

And, much later, Saturday morning came. There was a moment when Dylan awoke on his side where he only remembered going out for a few drinks the night before, and yet there was clearly someone in his arms, one of which had gone quite numb beneath said someone. He’d quite possibly drooled into her hair. Then memory returned to him. The Omnivorebus, his wounded hands, Sarsa’s miracle healing… the sex, no, lovemaking. He could go for another round. Sarsa shifted in his arms and he felt her reaching back between them; she’d woken with the same idea. She had just managed to wrap her fingers around his organ under the duvet cover when a woman’s voice spoke.

“You didn’t report back after seeking the destruction of your construct.”

‘Oh Shit!’ There was an intruder in his room. That would normally be a very bad thing, woman’s voice or not, but Sarsa seemed unconcerned. She ungripped him before she replied, drowsily,  

“I didn’t hear you arrive, Kizzy.”

“Your companion appeared to need sleep and, anyway, I don’t favour a showy entrance.”

“We’ll not sign you up for a vajazzle then,” muttered Dylan, irked at being the ‘companion’ in his own room. He continued, “who’s your friend Sarsa?”

“Kizurial of the Seraphim.”

“An actual angel?”

“A Seraph, yes.”

“Oh, bugger.” 

They sat up together in the bed. He saw a black woman sitting in his desk chair, holding one of his old Star Trek paperbacks books. Her pose suggested she’d just been interrupted while reading it. He had time to register that she was wearing a relatively severely cut dark suit when his mind properly registered his bed-mate’s appearance. He looked down at the part of her body above the duvet cover, the biohazard tattoo, stretched larger than before, showed starkly black against pale skin. He gently turned her face towards him, and she allowed it. Her features too, had changed. He could see the echo of the demon she’d been, but she was even more beautiful; an angel’s beauty. 

“Your skin’s white,” he told her, the intruding Seraph momentarily forgotten, “and your face… I mean, you don’t look like a demon anymore? You’re still incredible though, you have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. I tried to tell you that last night, I think. They changed after you healed me.” 

Sarsa looked down at her hands, much as Dylan had his own after her previous night’s miracle. In place of the clawlike black nails on red digits, she had neatly nail-trimmed, human-like fingers. She flicked her head around until she saw Dylan’s shaving mirror, and then slipped from the bed and dashed over to pick it up. Naked as she had been the night before, he noticed her legs had grown longer, with shapely calves, and ended in unmarred feet, as pale and white as the rest of her.  Her body proportions had reshaped, too. He doubted she’d fit her skirt, or the crop top.

She took up his shaving mirror, angled it from side to side,

“Wha…? Whenever I took a humanlike form, I would find a face and body that amused me. But this? This was the face I had, at the beginning of all things, when I was the Angel Dyoel…”

“The face, and, uh,” Dylan blushed, recalling the story of the Grinch. It wasn’t a heart that had grown at least three sizes overnight, although the growth was in that general region. What were they feeding angelic beings in paradise? That sure wasn’t in the Bible, either.

Dylan reached for the robe hanging over his chair, pulled it into the bed, and covered himself before climbing out to join her. Sarsa might have been happy to be nude before an intruder, but he wasn’t. He glanced at Kizzy again; she’d put his book aside and was sitting with her hands on her knees. She seemed prepared to wait, watching with a blank expression that gave nothing away. He wouldn’t have fancied facing her across a poker table. Ignoring her for the nonce, he crossed over to Sarsa and gently took the mirror from her, placed it back down. She let him.

“Dyoel? Is that you? That is, are you that? I mean, fuck, sorry, you said to call you Sarsa.” 

“The name I was given reflected that before I fell, I was to have a special duty in the creation. I was to ensure that the moral lessons, the holy books, of mortal societies wouldn’t become corrupted in the telling and retelling.”

“I think Dyoel’s a beautiful name, but if you want me to call you Sarsa?.” 

She nodded, “Sarsa, still. I’m still a demon, after all. Still bound, at that.”

She tapped her tattoo with one finger, and turned towards Kizzy. 

“I performed a miracle, last night, to heal this mortal’s hands. A true one, no demon’s trick. I had not thought it possible.”

Kizzy approached from Dylan’s chair. She rested a palm on to Sarsa’s head for a few seconds, and then turned to Dylan. He held out his hands, palms up. The impact of their healing was lessened, he realised, as she hadn’t seen the damage before the miracle. In fact, he was just showing her a pair of sweaty hands that had been passed eagerly over much of Sarsa’s pre-transformation body. 

“I should probably just go wash my-“ 

He didn’t have chance to finish. She gripped firmly, shook his hand, and let him feel just a touch of her true age, her strength, her compassion.

Her judgement. 

She was Kizurial of the Seraphim, and he was a mortal. He had thought the Omnivorebus terrifying beyond comprehension, but it was like a child’s toy before the entity incarnate in a pretty black woman. Unfortunate, then, that he found himself unable to keep the stickier memories of the night before from the top of his mind. She released his hand, and then clasped her own behind her back. There was a burst of flickering light there, as if they’d briefly been aflame.  

“I count amongst my closest friends a succubus, Dylan MacFitzson, and at this stage there likely is not a surface of our shared home that she hasn’t copulated against. Including the ceilings. Your sexual activities do not concern me. I’m more interested in your miracle.”

Kizzy turned to Sarsa, and her unemotional expression changed. She smiled so warmly she looked almost like a different woman,

Sarsa seemingly couldn’t help but smile back, “I truly do, Kizurial of the Seraphim. I’ve lain with mortals before, but I never awoke with my true face…”

Tilting her head slightly to one side, Kizzy asked,

“Do you compare the affection, the shared and mutually pleasurable time you spent last night with this mortal, with those times when you were working only evil, your mind fractured, its pieces hidden? I have seen your memories of what you did in those years of madness; dominating mortals, only taking and controlling, obtaining their ‘consent’ to serve by submission to your will.”

The regret on Sarsa’s face almost broke Dylan’s heart, and yet Kizzy had more to say.

“I’ve seen their minds, too, those who survived. We’re still helping some of your previous mortal liaisons with therapies, with counselling.”

Dylan broke in, “Alright, I get it, she was evil. Last night she saved me though! My hands were killing me, and now they feel great! She’s not evil now, right?”

“Well, I certainly do not think you will need counselling, Dylan. Tell me, Sarsa, does it not feel better to do good, rather than spread evil?” 

“It does. All those billions of years, and I’d forgotten, or lied to myself…” she smiled, “I worked a miracle.”

“You did. And you, Dylan, before your pride grows and you find yourself unable to go about your day without smirking, I would caution you to remember that Sarsa’s miracle has had a greater impact on her changed appearance than…any bedroom activities.”

Dylan coughed awkwardly, slipped his arms around Sarsa’s waist from behind. She looked like she needed a hug. He found that after her change, he could only just see over her bare shoulder, if he stood up on the tips of his toes. That luxurious long black hair pressed between them. If anything, it seemed even silker after her overnight transformation. She adjusted one of his arms up across her breasts, as far as it could now reach, and tugged the other hand down to cover her bush. Surely just a show of modesty before an angel, though the latter hand quickly felt warm, and damp. His robe seemed suddenly ineffective for modesty. 

“You should have my card, Dylan MacFitzson, in case you require our assistance with any future supernatural incidents. It is often the case that when a mortal meets one thing beyond the mundane, they will have further encounters. You may also message Sarsa, via me, if you so wish.”

Kizzy reached into an inside pocket of her suit, and took out a business card. She held it up briefly. Dylan made out “Ms Kizzy Dieudonné, K-Team Licensed Private Investigations Agency,” and some contact details. Seemingly noting that his hands were full, she placed it onto his desk.  

“I am going to return tomorrow at sunset. You may spend the weekend here in London, Sarsa, as a reward for your progress so far. Try to leave this bedroom and see some of the sights. Until then, I bid you both farewell.” 

“Thank you, Kizzy.”

“Uh… ‘bye.” 

Dylan thought he should say something more, but the feel of Sarsa’s restored body under his hands had rather distracted him. He was vaguely aware Kizzy was no longer in the room, though he didn’t hear her leave by the door. His thoughts concentrated on the demon in his arms, and the way she was reaching behind for him, and grasping him, and then he was inside her again, and she was moaning again, bent over his desk, and incredibly she felt even better than before. 

It was not long before he needed another 15 – 20 minute break, but that was ok, he still had his tongue. 

End

Author’s note: I’m not finishing for compliments, I get this is not the best, and maybe it should have ended earlier but it did feel great to finish something again after literal years of being a bit of a miserable person. Thank you for your time. 

Citation: K-Team for Kizzy’s associates was inspired by the A-Team (1983), and was suggested by InBrightestDay a while ago. 

Citation: The Grinch and his heart are references to ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas!’ by Dr Seuss (1957), although Dylan is likely thinking of the 2000 film adaption. 

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